


Daddy's Little Wingman

by beetle



Category: Deadpool (2016), Deadpool (Comics), Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Amazing Spider-Man (Movies - Webb)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Awkward Flirting, Banter, Dogs, Ellie is Wade's Wingman, First Date, First Kiss, First Meetings, Hopeful Ending, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, M/M, Mentions of Carmelita Camacho, Mentions of Dr. Connors, Mentions of Flash Thompson/Harry Osborn, Mentions of MJ, Past Carmelita Camacho/Wade Wilson, Past Harry Osborn/Peter Parker - Freeform, Spideypool - Freeform, dog park, meet cute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-01
Updated: 2016-10-01
Packaged: 2018-08-18 19:24:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8173067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: Peter’s walking MJ’s dog when he’s approached by a small, precocious, mouthy child named Ellie, who has a big, precocious, mouthy father named Wade, and a very happy, well-behaved mutt called “Bob.” How all five of them wind up in a chocolate-colored Tesla S3 in the ass-end of Queens, while Peter and Wade make out is . . . really all Ellie’s fault. Written for Epervier’s prompt (in full in the end notes).Notes/Warnings: AU in which no one has powers, Wade was never dishonorably discharged, and Weapon X never happened. The rest is pretty self-explanatory.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Epervier](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Epervier/gifts).



                                                    

 

 

“Your dog’s _real little_ , Mister,” a child’s piping voice said from Peter’s left, and he looked up from watching Maximillien—MJ’s precious fur-baby, and his name was longer than the dog, itself—do his business at his usual, snail-like rate.

 

Standing off to his side, wearing a white _My Little Pony_ t-shirt, purple shorts with little pink flowers, and a pair of those kids’ sneakers with the lights on the bottom (half the lights on _this_ pair were flickering sluggishly, if at all) was a little girl. She was short for her age, which looked to be about seven or eight years old, and sturdy, with skin the color of cinnamon, a long, dark, curly ponytail, and cute pug features in a round face, with intelligent, inquisitive milk chocolate-colored eyes.

 

“Um.” Peter said, his brow furrowing. It was mid-day on what he was pretty sure was a _school_ -day, even though it was late spring, and he’d seen no other children in the dog-park since he’d brought Max in twenty-five minutes ago. Except for the ones too little to be in school yet. But this child, despite her small size, was _clearly_ school-aged.

 

She grinned up at Peter, now, showing off a gap in her upper front teeth. The grin was still unusually charming, anyway. Even to Peter, who found children . . . off-putting, at best.

 

“Your dog,” the little girl said again, helpfully pointing at Max, who was looking up at her as pee trickled out of him at such a slow rate, it may have been going in the opposite direction, at this point. Peter looked from dog to girl and back, and took a moment to hate his house-mate/best friend fiercely. “He’s so _little_! Didja know? Littler than a subway rat! Only, subway rats are _big_ , _because_ they’re rats. And this dog's _little_ because he’s a _dog_. Hey, what’s his name?”

 

Peter blinked when the girl’s chatter stopped and the child, herself, waited patiently for an answer. He sighed. “His name’s Maximillien. And he’s about average-sized for his breed,” he said, imitating MJ right down to the snotty tone of voice she always got when talking about Max.

 

“How old is he?” The little girl immediately fired back, bouncing up on tiptoe excitedly. But before Peter could answer, she was speaking again, fast and excited. “ _Our_ dog’s name is Bob and he’s four years old! My Dad says he’s a big, dumb mutt, but _I_ think he’s pretty smart! He knows the words _walk_ and _food_ and _vet_ _and_ his name!”

 

“Fascinating,” Peter said with a dryness that was no doubt lost on the girl, who squatted to coax Max, who’d finally finished peeing and was sniffing his way over to the excited child, closer still. “Be careful, little girl, sometimes he—bites,” Peter finished with another sigh as Max, contrary to the last, stood on his hind legs to lick the little girl’s face with feverish affection and excitement of his own. The little half-Papillon/half-Yorkshire Terrier put his paws on the girl’s scarred, dimpled knees for better leverage and began interspersing his licks with happy, tiny barks, till the child was laughing and trying to avoid his tongue while petting him.

 

“Good boy, Maximillien! Good boy!” she kept saying between giggles. Peter sighed again and mentally just gave up, letting dog and child have their fun for however long they wanted, and damn his own work, waiting for him at home, along with a flu-ridden MJ, who’d been febrile, puking, and _far_ too sick to be walking Max.

 

“He’s so _sweet_! Subway rats aren’t sweet _at all_!” The girl exclaimed, ruffling Max’s fur and hugging him, while Max licked any bit of her he could reach, still barking his happy little barks. For a moment, Peter was quite rueful. MJ’s damn dog didn’t like _him_ this much, and never had. Even after three years.

 

“Well, no,” Peter allowed absently, glancing around them with another sigh, looking for anyone who could possibly be the girl’s parent. “But then again, the subway rats are probably far smarter and cleverer.”

 

“But they have the Blue Bonnet Plague. My Dad _says_ ,” the little girl insisted, momentarily very solemn. “He says I should _never_ try to pet them or make friends with them. And that if they bite me, to tell the nearest adult _immediately_.”

 

“Wise man, your dad.”

 

“Yeah. He was in the army in Canada for a _real long time_ and now he’s retired and a con-sultan for the American army!” The little girl looked up at Peter again, giggling as Max, unfazed, continued to lick her neck and jaw. “It’s really _cold_ in Canada, didja know? My Dad took me to where he grew up in Reh-jy-nuh, Sas—Sasket—”

 

“ _Saskatchewan_ , sweetie,” another voice, gravelly and low—as if its owner had spent six lifetimes doing nothing but smoking cigarettes and drinking bottom-shelf whiskey—said from behind Peter. Relief sweeping over him like a flung duvet, Peter turned slightly to address the girl’s father or guardian with a sound scolding.

 

“Sir, it may not be my place to say, but you really shouldn’t let your charge wander off on her— _own_ ,” the last word huffed out of Peter as if he’d been punched in the gut and his eyes widened.

 

Standing before him was . . . possibly the most _handsome_ man Peter had ever seen. Tall and strapping—he had at least four inches and fifty pounds on Peter’s slim, compact frame—with tanned, weathered skin and spiky, sun-bleached medium brown hair. His eyes were the same milk chocolate-brown as the chatty girl’s, his features angular and striking, from the aquiline nose and high cheekbones, to the dimpled chin and square, masculine jaw. He was smiling wryly, showing off perfect white teeth and more dimples in his cheeks.

 

He, too, was dressed in a _My Little Pony_ t-shirt (hot-pink) which, though much larger than his child’s, still stretched rather . . . enticingly across his broad, chiseled chest and around his big, muscular arms; straight-legged jeans showed off powerful thighs and calves; and finally a pair of big boots that looked like they’d be more at home in Fallujah, than a dog-park in Queens, completed the outfit.

 

Panting gleefully at his side, was a tall, short-haired, russet-colored mutt with floppy ears and a dopey, innocent expression. He was, of course, on a leash, as was the rule of the park and the city. His long, whippet-tail was wagging ceaselessly as he looked around him with doggy wonder. Drool dripped from his tongue like a leaky faucet.

 

“Yeah, I know,” the big, _ridiculously_ handsome man was saying sheepishly in his whiskey-and-cigarettes voice, running his free hand through that spiky hair. He was still smiling and the skin around his eyes was crinkled pleasantly. “But I was distracted tryin’ to make sure the mutt did his business and cleaning up said business, that I didn’t notice her wander off. I’m, uh, sorry if she’s talkin’ your ear off, guy.”

 

“Oh! No, no, it’s fine, I—I _love_ children!” Peter lied enthusiastically, face turning bright red as the girl’s father—if Peter wasn’t mistaken—gave him stealthy elevator-eyes before smiling wider. “They’re so, uh . . . so _child-like_!”

 

“So they are,” the girl’s father agreed, glancing down at his daughter, who was trying to get Max to roll over. Max, for his part, merely tried to lick any bit of her that came near him. “Especially _mine_. Heyya, Ellie-vader, let’s leave the nice man alone to play with his dog, and take Bobby home, huh?”

 

“Aw, but _Daddy_!” The girl—Ellie—was pouting when Peter glanced over at her again, hugging Maximillien to her as if he was already her best friend. Her eyes were big and stricken. “Maximillien and I just made friends! He’s such a _good boy_! Aren’tcha, Max? Yes! Max is _such_ a good boy!”

 

Ellie ruffled Max’s fur till the small dog was whining happily, almost shivering in pleasure.

 

“Wow,” her father said, scratching his head again, straight brows drawn together. “She’s really taken a shine to your, uh . . . what kinda dog _is_ that?”

 

“Um. He’s a half-Papillon and half-Yorkie. I, uh . . . I call him a [Yorkillon](https://s3.amazonaws.com/pet-uploads.adoptapet.com/b/8/6/85701215.jpg).” Peter grinned nervously. He was good at a lot of things—especially math and science-related—but humor wasn’t one of them, according to MJ and several other people Peter had known over the course of his almost thirty years. _Sarcasm_? Yeah. All day, every day. _Irony_? A past-master. But plain, old, innocent _humor_? Not so much.

 

But Ellie’s father giggle-snorted, those dimples deepening and his face turning just a little red.

 

“ _Yorkillon_ ,” he repeated, still sniggering almost half a minute later, while Peter looked on bemusedly. “That’s pretty funny, Mr., um. . . .”

 

“Parker. Peter Parker. But please,” he insisted, grinning his own pained and dyspeptic-looking grin. “Please call me Peter.”

 

“Peter,” Ellie’s father said when his giggles tapered into a soft sigh. He held out his large, rough-looking hand. “Name’s Wilson. Wade Winston Wilson. Call me Wade. And that terror mauling your dog is my little chip off the ol’ block, Eleanor. And the mutt, here, is Bob.”

 

The dog sitting patiently, placidly at Wade’s feet woofed, deep but quiet, at the sound of his name.

 

“Only my _Abuelita_ calls me _Eleanor_ ,” Ellie said disdainfully, standing up with Max in her arms. The little Yorkillon was licking her neck and jaw once more. Hell, he didn’t even like _MJ_ this much! “You can call me Ellie!”

 

“Alright, uh, Ellie. And Wade,” Peter said, blushing as he looked back at Wade and realized they were still holding hands and _definitely_ no longer shaking. And Wade was giving him an intent, but unreadable look. “It’s nice to meet you all.”

 

“Feeling’s mutual, Pete,” Wade said in a slightly lower timber, his eyebrows quirking up in some sort of challenge. And he was still holding Peter’s hand, showing no sign of letting go any time soon.

 

The weird thing was, Peter wasn’t complaining. Or trying to pull away from the callused, rough, yet gentle grip. All he could do was stare into Wade’s warm, chocolate eyes as that gorgeous smile widened fractionally. A light flush spread across Peter’s entire confused body.

 

“Daddy? Can Pete and Max come with us to lunch?”

 

As if a spell was broken, they let go of each other’s hands and both looked over at Ellie, who was still holding Max in her arms like a baby.

 

“Uhhhh,” Wade breathed, turning a bit red once more. “Ellie-sweetie, I’m sure Pete and Max have things they wanna be doin' more than goin’ to lunch with strangers.”

 

“But—But—” Ellie wibbled, her eyes gone huge and tear-shiny, her lower lip pooched-out and quivering. Even Peter felt that sad expression like a second gut-punch.

 

“I, um, actually have nothing planned for the rest of my afternoon,” Peter quickly lied once more, grinning wide and nervously. He spared a brief half-thought for his unfinished work on the Connors Compound—the retired CEO of ConPark Industries had entrusted Peter with continuing his life’s work, and Peter took that trust _very_ seriously—and shrugged. “I mean, I was working from home, today, to take care of my sick friend MJ, whose dog this is, and after I got her comfortable I took Max for walkies. But other than that, I had nothing penciled in for the rest of the afternoon, so. . . .”

 

Peter realized he was babbling and trailed off, flushing bright-red once more. Wade was frowning at him.

 

“Look, that’s kind of ya, guy—ya seem like a real sweetheart. But ya don’t haveta—”

 

“DAAA-DEEE!” Ellie complained, sounding more exasperated, now, than sad. In her arms, Max barked at Peter and Wade, terse and irritably, sounding quite a bit like his new best friend. “He said _yes_. So let’s _go_!”

 

“Ellie—”

 

“It’s alright, Wade,” Peter said meekly, his smile falling even as he tried to keep it propped up. But his disappointment was deep, indeed. “Lunch with a stranger and a stranger’s dog isn’t how you intended to spend your afternoon, I’m guessing, so I can just—” he waved a hand back toward the way he’d come into the park.

 

Wade’s eyes widened almost in panic. “Wait— _no_ , I didn’t mean— _fuck_ —I mean _fudge_!” Running his hand through his hair again, Wade sighed. “I’m not tryin' to fob ya off, Pete. I would _never_. I just—I wanted to give ya an out in case ya didn’t wanna be hangin’ around with me an’ my kid an' Bobby, here.”

 

Bob woofed again, happily staring off into the distance, still sitting obediently and drooling in place.

 

“I’m not . . . I think it’d be _great_ if you and Max came to lunch with us—we were goin' to, uh, my friend Weasel’s pub. They have outside seating in the back, so we could bring the dogs, and, yeah . . . the food’s _real_ good . . . and I don’t say that lightly.” Wade laughed, seeming a little nervous, himself. “So, you’re more than welcome to come with us, but I didn’t want you to feel obligated, y’know? I was tryin’ ta give ya an _out_.”

 

Peter’s smile came back, and it felt less dyspeptic and grimace-y than usual. Felt almost _natural_ , the way it hadn’t since he was very small . . . smaller than Ellie, even. “Oh. Um. Well . . . maybe Max and I don’t _want_ an out,” he said softly, hopefully, as he unsuccessfully fought off another blush.

 

Wade’s smile returned, slow and wide and rakish.

 

“Okay. That’s—yeah, that’s _awesome_ , Pete! Uh—coolness! You and Max want a ride there, or ya got your own?”

 

“A ride’d be great. I don’t drive,” Peter said, shrugging and still smiling genuinely. Wade dug in his pocket for his keys, pulling them out with a jingle and a whistle before shifting them to the hand with Bob’s leash.

 

“My car’s not far from here,” he said, nodding the opposite way that Peter’d come into the park. “We can head on over to Weas’s pub now, if you’re hungry and if Max is done with his business.”

 

“Oh, he’s done,” Peter said firmly, really hoping the dog wouldn’t have to go poop in the middle of lunch. “And I . . . I could eat.”

 

Wade’s grin widened further, and Peter’s breath caught and his heart began to beat faster, even though it felt as if something were squeezing it like a vise. _What the hell is_ this _?_ he wondered warily, trying to catch his breath and calm himself.

 

“Yay!” Ellie cheered, rocking Max in her arms and skipping off toward the exit she and Wade had used. Peter let go of Max’s retractable, but not infinite leash just before the poor animal would’ve been garroted by it and the distance Ellie had already put between them and Peter. “C’mon! C’mon!”

 

Wade and Peter shared a look and a smile, Wade’s fond and indulgent, before it turned almost _heated_ the longer his eyes lingered on Peter.

 

“What?” Peter asked, his own pale face probably gone splotchy and ridiculous from all the blushing. Wade’s regard gentled, but didn’t shift.

 

“Nothin’, it’s just . . . you’re absolutely _adorable_ when your face turns all red like that. You’re the cutest guy I’ve seen in a _long_ time,” he murmured in his low, rough voice. It sent shivers through Peter and he made a high, embarrassingly desperate noise in the back of his throat. Wade’s eyes widened, then went half-lidded. “Fuckin’ _gorgeous_.”

 

“I’m really _not_ ,” Peter mumbled, looking down for a moment, his dark-brown hair hanging almost in his eyes. He’d been growing it out for a couple months, just for the change. MJ said that the hair, along with Peter’s tendency not to shave as often as he should, made him look ‘ _almost dangerous in a surprisingly attractive way. Like a nerdy bad-boy_.’

 

“Yeah, ya kinda _are_ , Pete,” Wade said, maintaining eye-contact, even as his hand landed gently on the small of Peter’s back. Then Wade was escorting him along after a yards-distant Ellie and Max, out of the dog-park, with Bob at their heels. “I mean, not to be a dick, hittin’ on ya when you’re just tryin’ to walk your friend’s dog and mind your own business, but . . . _wow_. I could stare at ya all day.”

 

Peter’s face felt like it was covered with an invisible electric blanket cranked up to **HIGH** , by now, and he looked away. At the arched gateway that led out of the park, where Ellie was waiting with Max in her arms. “Hmm . . . and what does, um, Ellie’s _mother_ think about you complimenting and charming strange men in the park?”

 

Wade’s smile faltered and his brow furrowed.

 

“Well, I’d _like_ to think she’s lookin’ down from Heaven or some other dimension, givin’ me a thumbs up for charmin’ a guy as _sexy_ as _you_.” Wade winked even as Peter’s mouth dropped open in shock. He quickly started to stammer out apologies, his blush fading into a mortified blanch. But Wade merely watched him with wry amusement before chuckling. “So fuckin’ earnest and _cute_ , Pete. She’d have eaten _you_ up with a _spoon_ , my Carmelita.”

 

“I’m . . . I’m so sorry for your _loss_ , Wade, I . . . I didn’t _mean_ to—”

 

“I know ya didn’t, Baby Boy. It was an honest mistake.” Wade shrugged, the melancholy fading from his handsome face. “Anyway, ya can make it up to me by letting me pay for lunch.”

 

Peter’s eyebrows shot up. “Uh . . . how would _that_ be me making it up to you, Wade? Your logic is evading me, at the moment.”

 

“Ohhh.” Wade chuckled as they reached Ellie, and she strode ahead of them with widely-spaced steps, growling: “MONSTER STEPS!” as she did so. Max seemed content to be carried in her arms. More content than _Peter_ had ever seen the picky little animal. “I’m not too big on logic. I’m more of a gut-heart guy. Your Vulcan-logic has no power over me.”

 

Surprised and inordinately pleased, Peter snorted. None of his very few friends were fans of _Star_ _Trek_. Not even Dr. Connors. “Ugh, I’m betting you’re an Andorian-lover.”

 

“Isn’t everybody?” Wade dimpled at Peter as they walked down the street, toward the distant corner. Ellie was pretty far ahead of them, but not out of sight. “Though my guilty-pleasure favorites are the Cardassians. They’re so devious and _hot_.”

 

Peter burst out laughing, so loud he covered his mouth, flushing deeply. “Seriously? Oh, _Jeez_! I prefer even _Andorians_ to the Cardassians! They’d sell their own mothers for a place in the Obsidian Order! And anyway, _everyone_ knows the most devious and hot aliens on _Trek_ are the _Romulans_.”

 

“ _Romulans_? Meh! _Meh_ , I say!” Wade made a rude noise. “They’re just Vulcans with shittier haircuts and an unearned superiority complex!”

 

“Oh, now, Wade . . . them’s _fightin’_ words. I'll throw down for my _Star Trek_ faves. Have a care,” Peter warned evenly. Wade snickered.

 

“Yeah, because me maybe gettin’ to tackle you and pin you to a flat surface with my body is gonna be a _deterrent_ to me insultin’ Romulans . . . _riiiiiight_. . . .” Wade’s left eyebrow quirked up archly and Peter blushed yet again, ducking his head.

 

“A-are you flirting with me, Mr. Wilson?” he asked before he could censor himself, quite uncertain whether or not he _liked_ the idea of being flirted with. Even when the person doing the flirting was as sexy and charming as _Wade Wilson_. “Or do you just like insulting Romulans?”

 

“Definitely some from Column A and some from Column B. Although,” Wade added thoughtfully, but with a gaze Peter could feel even as he kept his eyes on the ground. “Insultin’ Romulans is just icing on the cake, really.”

 

“I see.” Peter smiled a little. “The cake, itself, being flirting with a man you barely know?”

 

“Nah . . . the cake bein'  _you_ , period, Baby Boy.”

 

Startled, Peter looked up at Wade again, wide-eyed and gaping. Wade was watching him intently once more, his chocolate eyes keen and sharp.

 

“I’m, uh . . . I’m _cake_ , am I?” Peter swallowed hard and Wade smirked.

 

“ _Must be_ , because I just wanna eat you up.”

 

“Um.” Peter couldn’t think of an appropriate reply, only continue blushing for the rest of the walk, his eyes aimed down at the ground again as Wade’s arm occasionally brushed his.

 

Two cars before the corner, they reached Ellie and Max, who were standing in front of a roomy, sleek [Tesla S3](http://cleantechnica.com/files/2015/06/Tesla-Model-S-Brown-Amsterdam-3.jpg) that perfectly matched Wade and Ellie’s eyes.

 

“Nice ride,” Peter noted, his blush finally fading. Wade unlocked the car with his key-fob and Ellie whooped, opening the right rear door and letting Max scamper in, then climbing in after him. Wade patted Bob on the back and the dog woofed and hurried into the back seat, as well, tail still wagging.

 

Peter couldn’t help the smile that curved his lips.

 

Wade shut the back door on Ellie’s wild giggles—both Max _and_ Bob were licking her mercilessly—then opened the passenger door for Peter, smirking just a little, his eyes roaming down and up Peter’s button-down and khaki-clad body.

 

“Take a picture: it’ll last longer,” Peter said in an admirably dry tone, sliding into the car gracefully. Wade leaned on the door and watched Peter buckle up.

 

“You don’t even wanna _know_ the kinda pictures I’d take of _you_ , Peter Parker,” he murmured, his eyes more than _warm_ , now. They were _smoldering_. “How a guy as sexy as _you_ doesn’t have a boyfriend—or, uh, girlfriend—?”

 

“I’m _extremely_ gay,” Peter said, also dryly, and so there’d be no misunderstandings or mistaken assumptions. Not that it mattered if there _were_ , it was just . . . well, better to be true to himself than not, even when it didn’t really matter, right? It didn’t mean he had to _act on_  the fluke of a spark between himself and Wade. It didn’t mean _anything_. “So were my last two boyfriends.”

 

“Ah.” Wade chuckled. “Good to know. Anyway, how _you_ don’t have a boyfriend right now, and I’m _hopin’_ ya _don’t_ , is . . . inconceivable to me.”

 

Peter quirked his right eyebrow, but otherwise kept a perfectly straight face. “You keep usin’ tha’ word. I do not think it means what _you_ think it means.”

 

Wade’s left hand fluttered meanderingly, melodramatically up to his heart and he sighed, heavy and stage-y.

 

“Be still, my beatin’ heart,” he breathed, gaping at Peter with wondering eyes. “Would it be terribly premature of me to propose marriage to ya, Peter Parker?”

 

Peter rolled his eyes, his cheeks only turning slightly pink, this time. He supposed he was getting used to Wade’s come-ons. The thought didn’t displease him. “Before five p.m. on a Tuesday? Terribly,” he quipped. Wade grinned again, daffy and hapless.

 

“Weeeeeell . . . if I get ya the best tiramisu you’ll _ever_ have for dessert, will ya say _yes_? At least to dinner, real soon?”

 

Peter gave _Wade_ a once-over, this time, letting his eyes linger on the good bits—which was really _all_ the bits, as far as Peter was concerned—before meeting Wade’s arresting eyes again.

 

“We’ll see how lunch goes,” he said, smiling and looking out the windshield, then in the rearview, where Ellie was still giggling and being licked to death.

 

“ _Maybe’s_ as good as a _yes_!” Wade enthused, closing the door firmly. Peter rolled his eyes again, but didn’t bother to stifle a quiet chuckle. It’d been _forever_ since he’d flirted with a hot guy but apparently, it was like riding a bike.

 

#

 

“So, Mr. Parker . . . whaddaya do for a living?”

 

Peter smiled as he took his last bite of tiramisu, his eyes fluttering shut in pleasure as sweetness exploded on his tongue before melting into pure sensation that put _everything_ else in the world—Wade’s question, Ellie’s squealing as she played with the dogs on the grassy patch near the back of the pub’s patio area, and the gentle susurrus of the few other patrons who were seated outside chatting quietly—at a remove.

 

It truly _was_ the best tiramisu—just about the best _anything_ —Peter had ever tasted. Weasel may have _looked_ like an unshaven hippie/dealer in hallucinogens, but he was a culinary _genius_.

 

When that final bite was but a happy memory, Peter opened his eyes to find Wade staring at him with that intent, _intense_ gaze, his eyes heated and _very_ frankly covetous. And not for the first time since they'd arrived at the pub.

 

Peter blushed, suddenly sure he’d _never_ get used to such a look being aimed at him. Although, as lunch had worn on, he'd become more and more curious about whether or not he wanted to _try_. Despite his own promises to himself of _never again_  after the mess that'd been his life for _years_ after things with Harry imploded.

 

“I, um . . . I’m the head of R&D at ConPark Industries’ New York City branch,” he said, biting his lip, but meeting Wade’s gaze steadily. “It’s a, uh, pretty recent promotion. Just since Kurt Connors retired six months ago.”

 

“Hmm,” Wade said, a small line forming between his brows. “I do a lotta consultin’ work with the U.S. military and they have some contracts going with C.I., as I’m sure _you_ know.”

 

“Oh, I know,” Peter said tersely, frowning. “And I tried to talk Kurt out of doing business with the world’s scariest, least responsible military complex, but . . . he decided to heed his own counsel, on that one.”

 

Now, Wade’s brows drifted up, his eyes flashing. “Got somethin’ against the women and men who protect the country you live in so freely, Pete?” he asked in a voice that was so nonchalant, Peter knew it was fake. That what he’d said had made Wade bristle under that good-natured curiosity.

 

But he didn’t backpedal. He never had and never _would_ —not about _this_. He had very _definite_ opinions about C.I.’s continuing ties to the U.S. government and military, and they involved his own deeply held principles and lifelong pacifism. He’d _never_ compromise those values just because of a cute guy who held the _opposite_ view, but he could, he supposed, clarify and explain why he felt the way he did.

 

“Against the people who serve so selflessly and put themselves in harm’s way so I can sit and eat tiramisu with the handsomest, most charming man I’ve ever met, while I _should_ be working on any of ten different projects for work?” Peter snorted. “No. _Nothing_ against them. It’s the people who put them in danger in the first place that I want _nothing_ to do with. Let people like _Tony Stark_ supply the military super-complex with super- _weapons_ that give it an unfair advantage over the rest of the world. That’s not what C.I. is about. Or it wasn’t, when I first started there as an intern, fifteen years ago.”

 

Wade’s brows lowered back to their normal position, and the fire in his eyes banked slowly.

 

“Then what is—or _was_ —C.I. about?”

 

“My understanding of its mission?” When Wade nodded, Peter sighed. “Saving lives and limbs. Improving the quality of life for people who’ve lost limbs, and other parts and organs through accidents of life or even of _birth_. And maybe even, someday, finding a way to _restore_ those lost limbs and organs.” Looking down at his chocolate-smeared plate, Peter smiled sadly. “That was what made me want to work for C.I. from the time I was four. What made me want to be a biochemist, just like my parents were. When my Dad and Dr. Connors started C.I. a million years ago, they had nothing but the dream of making life _better_ for people who’d been hurt or mutilated or sick. My Dad even had this brilliant idea. . . .” Peter laughed a little, as sadly as he’d smiled. “About using _cancer_ , the worst inherited disease of our lifetime _and_ his, to regrow limbs. And if anyone could’ve found a way . . . it was _my Dad_. But then he and my mom . . . there was a plane crash when I was five. . . .”

 

“Jesus,” Wade said, his big, warm, callused hand covering Peter’s where it rested on the table. His eyes were soft and gentle, once more. “I’m so _sorry_ , Pete. That . . . that’s _terrible_.”

 

Peter shrugged. “It was a long time ago. I barely remember what they looked like, you know? And anyway, I was raised by my Uncle Ben and Aunt May, and they were . . . just the _best_ parents I could’ve asked for.” Swallowing around a lump in his throat that he always got when thinking of Uncle Ben and Aunt May, he shrugged slightly and added: “May they rest in peace.”

 

“Oh, _Petey_. . . .” Wade breathed, his face falling, his mobile mouth turning down. He squeezed Peter’s hand tight for a few moments, then Peter turned his hand in Wade’s, linking their fingers together. It was instinct to do so, one that Peter’s brain questioned loudly and at length, but Wade’s hand felt too good to let go of. Too natural and too _right_.

 

“Yeah . . . I guess you could say I’ve, uh, never been lucky in love. _Any_ kind of love,” Peter added ruefully, after several minutes had passed. “At any rate, my point was . . . back when C.I. was just a poor, struggling lab out in Far Rockaway, we still had the mission, and it was _pure_ , you know? We improved lives in any way we could. Now . . . we _still_ do that sort of, but we’re doing other stuff, too, that has _nothing_ to do with helping people who aren’t senators, pharmaceutical companies, and government and military war-hawks. And _that_ . . . _that_ , Wade Wilson . . . pisses me the fuck off.”

 

Wade was still frowning. “Not everyone in your military’s upper echelons is a war-hawk or a monster, Pete,” he said softly.

 

“Maybe not. But their voices get lost in the mud-slinging and rhetoric. They’re drowned out by the bastards sending people off to _die_ on foreign soil, with things that C.I. patented. And then when those people lose limbs and lives, C.I.’s got fuck-all to say about it, and hasn’t done a goddamn _thing_ in recent years to make strides in the regenerative field it earned its good name in.” Peter was glaring down at the center of the wrought-iron table. “How many five-years-olds are losing parents because of what C.I. is tacitly supporting or outright _helping_ our military to do? How many people’s lives are being wrecked because they’ve had arms and legs blown off or spines irrevocably damaged? Why doesn’t the board of directors—men and women who were _scientists_ , once, and wanted to _change the world for the better_ —give a _steaming_ _shit_ about these people?”

 

Silence followed Peter’s rant. It lasted for several more minutes until Peter sighed again, flushing a deep, splotchy red once more. “I’m . . . sorry. I just . . . I get really worked up about this. I didn’t mean to offend you, or imply that you’re a bad person for working with the military. I just . . . it makes me so _angry_ to think of the way lives are wasted and destroyed, all for—what? Land? Oil? Ideology? The bottom-line?”

 

“Probably all of the above, Pete,” Wade muttered bitterly. When Peter risked a glance up, Wade was staring thoughtfully down at his chocolate mousse . . . the few spoonfuls that were left. “Look, I’m military since I was sixteen. Lied about my age to get into the army and away from my fuckin’ _father_. Rose through the ranks, some. Got put on a certain career path because . . . I was _good_ at what I did. _Real_ good. Did five tours with Special Ops, then got the _fuck_ out just after I turned thirty-two because of all the things you just said and more. Then . . . then the world changed. It got darker, more dangerous. And suddenly . . . suddenly the brass started to make sense, y'know? And Carm and I had _Ellie_ , and . . . Carm was deployed to Afghanistan eighteen months later. And that’s where she took her last, agonized, frightened breath—about a _million_ miles away from everyone who loved her, including her two-years-old daughter—trapped in a tank that’d rolled over an IED. There wasn’t even enough of her left to ship home in a box. The casket we buried was empty and Ellie . . . Ellie doesn’t even _remember_ the sound of Carm’s _voice_.”

 

Peter hung his head and squeezed Wade’s fingers with his own. “I’m so sorry,” he said softly, his voice cracking, nonetheless. “Which is a completely _inadequate_ statement, but it’s true. If I could . . . _God, Wade_ , if I had the _power_ , I’d spend _every_ waking moment saving lives. _Fixing_ them. Making the world a better place. Once upon a time, I _thought_ that that’s what I’d be doing working for _Kurt_ , but . . . he’s _changed_. And with him, the rest of the world.  _Things’ve_ changed. Not for the better. And I wish . . . I _wish_ I could make it _all_ _better_ , you know? Solve the problems and just _help_. Without having to get permission from a board of fucking directors who only see the bottom-line anymore. But . . . if wishes were horses. . . .”

 

“I feel ya, Petey.” Wade was the one to sigh, this time, shaking his head. Then he was smiling—a rather limp, sardonic sort of grimace—as he met Peter’s gaze squarely. “Jesus. I think we just talked about _all_ the shit people should _never_ talk about on a first date: politics, dead spouses, and personal beliefs.”

 

Peter’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Is _that_ what this is, then? Our first date?”

 

“First of many, I hope,” Wade said with a disarming, vulnerable sincerity that made Peter smile and say the first, flirty thing that popped into his mind.

 

“Hmm, well, keep bringing me to places like _this_ , and I just might make a _habit_ of you, Wade Wilson,” he said playfully, biting his lip. Wade’s somber eyes glinted with renewed merriment and interest.

 

“Well, you know what they say about forming habits . . . means you’ll have to, uh, _do_ _me_ , for sixty-six days to keep me.” Wade waggled his eyebrows wildly, till Peter began to laugh, despite himself. Wade soon joined him, with a rich, low _heh-heh-heh_. “God, even your _laugh_ is fuckin’ _adorbs_ , Baby Boy. _Lookit_ you . . . I can’t _even_ when I look into those big, brown eyes,” he said quietly, leaning a bit closer to Peter and squeezing their fingers together tightly before tugging on them. Peter’s giggles cut off and he swallowed again, his eyes wide as he licked his lips reflexively, before glancing briefly down at Wade’s. They were soft-looking and slightly parted.

 

Following the tugging on his hand, he let himself be urged closer, till he was leaning across the table, almost in his dessert-plate.

 

Because it was just _flirting_ , right? Even now?

 

Of course, it was. It’d been _years_ since Peter had even considered going beyond occasionally flirtatious banter and trading coy, knowing gazes with _anyone_. Only. . . .

 

This wasn’t just _anyone_ , was it?

 

It was _Wade_. . . .

 

“So fuckin’ _beautiful_ , Pete,” Wade murmured, also leaning in to meet Peter halfway. Peter smiled shyly, uncertainly—ignoring the warning claxons going off in his alarmist brain, for the almost unfamiliar warmth and _hope_ radiating from his _heart_ —his eyes fluttering shut a moment before Wade’s lips pressed his. . . .

 

“Does this mean you’re gonna be Daddy’s boyfriend, Petey?”

 

Peter froze, millimeters away from Wade’s lips—so close, he could feel the ghost of them and all but _taste_ chocolate mousse—and his eyes flew open. He saw the side of Wade’s face: the faint shadow of dark stubble and neatly-trimmed sideburns. Then he, too, was turning to face Ellie, who was standing behind the chair she’d sat in, two dogs—one of whom, at least, was being _unusually_ obedient—sitting at her heels and watching Peter and Wade with curious, dark eyes just like Ellie.

 

“Um,” Peter said, going scarlet and glancing at Wade, who glanced right back before turning to Ellie again, a pained smile on his face.

 

“That’s, um . . . it’s too soon for either of us to answer that, Ellie-Belly. We _just_ met a few hours ago.”

 

“Oh.” Ellie pouted and scowled. “But Petey really _likes_ you, don’tcha, Petey? I can tell by the way you look at him!”

 

“Um,” Peter repeated, turning redder _still_ as he looked down at his plate. And his shirt, on which was smeared chocolate. He sighed. “Well, Ellie, I, uh—”

 

“And Daddy _really_ likes _you_ , too!” Ellie exclaimed, loud enough that heads turned, some faces amused, some decidedly not. “He stares at you the same way _you_ stare at _him_ : Like he’s the prettiest thing you _eeeeeever_ saw and like you wanna kiss him _all the time_ and like you wanna get married and move on a farm with horses _and_ chickens!” Ellie bounced in place, grinning _Wade’s_ grin at them both. “And I’d have my own horse named Calico and a baby chicken named Cluck-Cluck!”

 

Peter and Wade exchanged another glance, this one wide-eyed and amused on Wade’s end, confused and horrified on Peter’s. Wade shrugged and sighed.

 

“Honey-Bunny,” he began patiently, reaching out to pick Ellie up and sit her on his lap. “Ellie, that’s, uh . . . a real nice story you’re tellin' yourself, but ya gotta understand, kiddo: Petey and I just met. We don’t even know if we’re _friends_ , yet, let alone _boy_ friends. Let alone ready to get married, move to a farm, and get some animals.”

 

“But,” Ellie said, pouting again. “But you think he’s _pretty_ , right? And he’s smart and he has a nice dog _and_ he smells _good_! Like a vanilla chai latte from _Starbucks_ , with extra cinnamon!”

 

“Huh?” Peter blinked at Wade and Ellie, who watched him with the same bright, earnest, chocolate-colored eyes. Wade’s smile was both apologetic and not.

 

“My kid’s gotta point, Baby Boy. You _do_ smell like a vanilla chai latte with extra cinnamon . . . all sweet and spicy and yummy. And yeah, you’re smart _and_ pretty. As for the dog, well,” Wade cast a considering glance at Max, who was still sitting obediently, watching Ellie with adoring eyes. Wade shrugged again. “Eh. The dog’s not so bad, either.”

 

“He’s not even _my_ dog!” Peter protested, blushing hotly and ignoring the other stuff Wade and Ellie had said, because . . . just _because_. He suddenly felt overwhelmed and anxious. As if he was in over his head and sinking deeper with every second. He knew, suddenly, that this whole thing—the flirting, the laughing, the lunch, the hand-holding—had been a _very_ _bad_ idea. It was time to go. “And, um, MJ probably thinks I’ve kidnapped Max and run away to _Mexico_ , by now—it’s been hours since I was supposed to be back, and I didn’t even text her. I should probably, uh . . . I should, um, take Max home. . . .”

 

“Oh. Right.” Wade’s smile faltered and his face fell for the second time in Peter’s experience. Ellie’s smile and face did the same, only in miniature. “Yeah, your friend must be worried about ya both. Plus, ya know, you’ve got chocolate all over your shirt.”

 

Peter nodded, looking down at his front with a sigh that had nothing to do with the ruination of his favorite, dry-clean-only shirt.

 

When he dared look up again, Wade was signaling their server. Once she noticed him waving, he mouthed: “Check, please,” and she nodded briskly, hurrying back into the pub.

 

“At least let me pay for my half of lunch,” Peter began, digging in his back pocket when the bill arrived in its discreet leather holder. But Wade already had his platinum AmEx out.

 

“Too late, Petey.  Besides,” he said, winking playfully, though he still somehow seemed a bit glum. On his lap, Ellie was scowling fiercely at Peter, dark eyes narrowed angrily. He quickly looked away and saw their server was coming back for the card. “I’m a man of my word.”

 

Awkward silence reigned while they waited for the server to return with Wade’s card and the receipt. At least till Wade cleared his throat. When Peter looked up, Wade smiled a limp shadow of his usual smile.

 

“Want a ride back to your place—or wherever?”

 

“That’d be nice,” Peter said quietly. Belatedly tacking on a mumbled: “I-it’s not far. Thanks.”

 

“Don’t mention it, Pete.”

 

Peter flushed and nodded. And he could still feel Ellie’s angry eyes on him, betrayed and disappointed.

 

#

 

“Here we are,” Wade said, pulling up to Peter and MJ’s tall, railroad-style townhouse. He whistled. “Nice place.”

 

“Thanks. MJ chose it. I just paid the mortgage,” Peter said, laughing a little. He unbuckled the passenger-side seat-belt and then made no move to get out of Wade’s comfortable car. He could feel Ellie’s fierce gaze on the back of his head; hear Bob’s panting directly behind him and Max’s soft, tiny snores; and he could sense Wade searching for something to say.

 

Finally, after a few silently _awful_ minutes had passed, Peter sighed and reached for the door handle. “Anyway, thanks for, um, lunch, and for being such good company. And the ride, too,” he practically whispered.

 

“Any time, Peter Parker.” Wade’s voice was tense and frustrated-sounding. “I _mean_ that.”

 

Peter looked over at Wade and found the man staring down at the Tesla’s navigation display intently, one big hand clenched on the gear-shift, the other strangling the wheel.

 

“Thanks.” It was all Peter could think to say. Wade snorted, self-deprecating and dismissive.

 

“You’re not even gonna gimme a _chance_ , are ya, Baby Boy?” he asked, at last meeting Peter’s gaze. His eyes were as fierce as Ellie’s, but desperate, too. _Sad_. “There’s _somethin’_ between us, Pete, and you _know_ it. _Feel_ it and _have_ felt it since the moment our eyes first met. Somethin’ powerful and _pure_ and _electric_. And it pulls us _towards_ _each_ _other_ almost irresistibly. And yet, you _are_ resistin’. Runnin’ away from it because for some reason I doubt you’ll tell me, you’re _scared_. Of it _and_ me and _us_.”

 

Peter’s mouth dropped open. “I—I—that’s—” he stammered, blinking a lot and wanting to look away . . . but finding that he was completely unable to. Wade snorted again, and did him the favor of turning his head forward, his jaw clenched tight.

 

“Ya know what? That’s fine. I’m _not_ gonna beg ya to give me a chance when it’s obvious you’re too shit-scared to do it,” he said angrily, his voice brittle and too-even despite that. Peter felt laid instantly and _unpleasantly_ bare, as something like guilt raced through him, something like regret. Something like _fear_. And _not_ just of staying in this car while Wade read him like a very disappointing and worthless book . . . but fear of _stepping_ _out of this car and never_ _seeing Wade again_. . . .

 

Surprisingly to Peter, the latter fear was slightly larger and more intense than the former. And growing more so with each second that passed while he stared yearningly at Wade’s angry, tight-jawed profile.

 

 _Unlucky in love_ , was how Peter had described himself. And it was _true_. Had been, his _whole life_. Time and time again, he’d given his heart and soul—his very _self_ —away to people . . . and time after time, they’d all _left_ _him_ , in some way or another. With the exception of MJ and, to a lesser but more painful extent, his ex-boyfriend/sort of-friend Harry Osborn, and Harry’s husband Flash.

 

Surely _Wade Wilson_ was just another person who’d leave Peter, someday, too . . . only . . . Peter had a feeling that with _Wade_ , it’d hurt more than all the other people  _combined_.

 

Looking away from Wade, and down at his lap and at his chocolate-stained shirt, Peter took a shaky breath. “They all leave me, Wade . . . the people I love. Eventually, they _all_ leave. They _move away_ and don’t keep in touch. They _stop loving me_. _They die_. _They leave me_. And each time it happens, I’m _devastated_ , yet I _live through it_. But Wade,” Peter sneaked another glance at Wade and found the other man watching him with a frown softening his scowl ever so slightly. “I’m so _tired_ of living through loss. Of surviving heartbreak and abandonment and loneliness. I _can’t do it_ , anymore. Not anymore. It hurts too much and I’m just so . . . so _done_. I’m _done_ with losing the people I love or not being able to _save_ them.”

 

And Peter turned away, gazing out the passenger-window, trying to blink away tears as he thought of his parents, and Uncle Ben and Aunt May, and MJ and Harry . . . even Flash, who’d been the bane of Peter’s existence as a child. And he tried not to imagine what it’d be like if he lost those _last three_ , because then? He’d truly have _nothing_. And no one. And then. . . .

 

Well, _then_ , there’d be no _point_ , would there? No point in living, no point in _anything_.

 

“Pete— _Peter_ ,” Wade said softly, but urgently, as if he’d said Peter’s name several times and not been heard. Peter shook his head, both to clear it and in negation.

 

“I’m . . . I’m sorry, Wade. I’ll get out of your hair.” Peter reached for the door handle again, ignoring the tears that dripped onto his already-stained shirt. This was the reason he kept to himself and worked from home as much as possible, avoiding social situations that didn’t involve MJ, or Harry and Flash (though the happily married couple were _quite_ insufferable _in_ that happiness), or some gala for C.I. Because _feeling things_ never went well for Peter Parker. Being vulnerable and “opening up” just lead to pain, pain, and _more_ pain. “C’mon, Max, time to wake up and go see MJ!”

 

But before Peter could do more than open his door a crack, Wade’s large hand was on his knee for a moment then, and when Peter automatically turned to look at him, that hand reached up to cup his face gently-gently-gently, as Wade leaned close, his eyes gone grave and compassionate as any Peter had ever seen.

 

“I _said_ I wouldn’t beg, Pete, but . . . I guess I’m a liar, after all, ‘cause . . . I’m _beggin’ ya_ , now, to take _one_ last chance. On me and Ellie. And Bob. We—” Wade paused to chuckle a bit when Bob barked at the sound of his name. “We _really_ like you. And not just because you’re pretty and smart and you smell like chai.”

 

“ _Vanilla_ chai,” Ellie interrupted to correct Wade, who rolled his eyes. " _With_ extra cinnamon."

 

“Yeah. What _she_ said,” he amended, smiling a little, his thumb stroking Peter’s cheek for long moments before his hand slid a little lower and that callused thumb was brushing softly, slowly across Peter’s bitten bottom lip. “We think you’re the  _tops_ , Petey-pie. And I’ll admit . . . that little story Ellie spun about the house in the country, with the horses and the cows—”

 

“ _Chickens_ , Daddy! They were _chickens_!”

 

“Right, the chickens. All that sounded . . . it sounded _real_ good, I won’t lie. Someday, that’d be somethin’ I’d _love_ to have with . . . well, someone like _you_.”

 

“S-someone like _me_?” Peter echoed, confused and certain he was hearing wrong. Wade’s smile grew, wry but still vulnerable.

 

“Someone _exactly_ like you, Peter Parker,” he breathed, leaning even closer, till his eyes were all Peter could see and their shared air-space was redolent of chocolate mousse and then—

 

 _Oh_ , Peter thought as Wade’s lips, incredibly soft and wonderfully sweet pressed his slightly open mouth, gentle, but sure. Tender. Peter moaned low in his throat and his tongue flicked out to taste those lips, then suck the sweetness from them, even as Wade tried to do the same and their tongues clashed and crashed together before, somehow, finding coordination and a rhythm that allowed them to slide against each other and explore, without clumsiness and awkwardness.

 

Peter’s arms wound around Wade’s neck and Wade’s hands found their way to Peter’s waist, where they settled, squeezing tentatively, then firmly, then _possessively_ as the kiss went on, growing more and more intense. It wasn’t long before Peter was moaning and getting hard—just from making out—his body yielding and clinging as much as possible to Wade’s. And Wade’s hands were sliding around and down from Peter’s waist to rest on the swell of his ass. It felt _so good_ —after so _long_ of denying himself the pleasure of another man’s touch—that Peter whimpered, tears running down his face again. . . .

 

“ _Daddy! Petey_! I’m a _depressionable child_!” Ellie suddenly squawked from the back-seat, utterly scandalized. It was enough to startle them out of their kiss and end the increasingly heated _moment_ between them.

 

Peter blinked dazedly at Wade, who was gazing back at him with a wondering, almost _goofy_ expression.

 

“ _Wow_ ,” he breathed, though it was practically panting, just like Peter’s breathing.

 

Nodding, Peter blushed and glanced at the rearview. In it, he could see Ellie sitting with one hand over her own eyes and the other over Bob’s. Bob, as ever, seemed to not mind at all, his drippy tongue hanging out of his mouth as he, too, panted happily.

 

Max was still asleep and snoring on Ellie’s other side.

 

Peter felt something within him begin to grow . . . to swell and fill almost to bursting as he smiled fondly then turned back to a hopeful-looking Wade. As he stared at the other man, that feeling began to define itself more and more. Until Peter realized he felt as if there’d been chains around his heart, made of thick, strong, rusty iron. And they’d been there for _years_ , growing thicker and stronger and rustier with each year that'd passed and each person he lost, until his heart— _his fucking heart_ —had been muffled and compressed . . . _barely_ able to beat and too smothered to _feel_.

 

But _now_. . . .

 

The chains were _still_ there, Peter knew. Still waiting to constrict his heart and make it small. But for the brief time he had let himself enjoy kissing Wade, those chains had loosened. Not enough to fall away—at least not _yet_ —but enough that for a little while, Peter’s heart had felt as if it had taken flight.

 

“Are you two _still_ kissing?” Ellie demanded irritably. Wade snorted and Peter chuckled, his face going up in flames once more.

 

“Daddy’s little wingman,” Wade said wryly, nodding back at Ellie with a smirk. “We’re done for now, sweetheart. You can uncover your eyes.”

 

Peter could see Ellie slowly peek from behind her hand when he looked in the rearview again. A few moments later, she took her hand away from her eyes and Bobs’s.

 

“That was _not_ cool, guys,” she said sternly, crossing her little arms. Wade laughed outright.

 

“ _You_ were the one who wanted us to kiss, Ellie-Bee!”

 

“ _Not in front of me_! I'm  _very_ depressionable!” she complained, so loud, Max snorted himself awake, looked around, barked once, then began licking Ellie’s knee till she smiled. Then laughed. Then hugged him, choosing to ignore Peter and her father after that.

 

Peter and Wade looked at each other with measuring, gauging eyes, but both of them were still smiling. The chains around Peter’s heart loosened again, just a _little_ bit . . . but perhaps for _keeps_.

 

 _Huh_ , he thought, almost giddy with shock and _hope_. He beamed at Wade, who blinked, and looked terribly vulnerable and hopelessly smitten. _Maybe . . . maybe he’s the one I_ won’t _lose_. . . .

 

“You and Ellie and Bob wanna come in for, um, I guess some hot cocoa? And maybe to meet MJ, if she’s feeling up to it?” he asked shyly, but managing to hold Wade’s gaze.

 

Wade’s smile was both affectionate and relieved.

 

“Sure thing, Petey,” he said, taking Peter’s hand again and linking their fingers like before. “That sounds _real_ good. Right, Ellie?”

 

“I want marshmallows in mine!” Ellie huffed, still sounding put-out and offended.

 

Wade rolled his eyes in fond exasperation and Peter grinned.

 

“Ditto, for me, Petey.” Wade grinned back and another chain around Peter’s heart loosened . . . then. . . .

 

Then fell away completely, vanishing as it did so.

 

“We’ll . . . we’ll see what the pantry has to offer,” he promised breathlessly, eyes wide as Wade darted in to steal a quick, knee-weakening kiss, then shut off the car with a satisfied smirk.

 

END

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: _"[Ellie's] A really efficient wingman who accosts Peter because Wade is a single daddy who fails at first impressions."_
> 
> [Follow me on Tumblr](https://beetle-ships-it-all.tumblr.com/)!


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